…but
we live so scattered to breathe so desperate our personas….
pure contradiction where his was snug into imagery bleeding its aversion. such cattle such contempt while anything seems appropriate; suffused with disgusts, so terrible surreal, while management molests its meanings. so edited so rewritten where realness seeped until it leaked into dungeons. some are sawdust, others are haystacks, others are concrete. sawdust is trampled, haystacks are flammable, & concrete is too solid for an abstract world. we never fit in. we smother our inclinations. (I would photograph invisibility.)
too many phobias or tender inertia or delightful misery—so tailored for us such pain in us a mile until we make fire between us; such mathematics such lonely algorithms to look up & see Love driving quickly. it means so little. it must mean so little. for faith says I shouldn’t see doubts!
sure those grounds with death lying while nothing one says is making sense. such a gnat swatter so much an avalanche empathy while so much means nothing at all. or it catches windpipes only in our domain while reluctant to remove ourselves. pure crossfire such tactile emotionality so certain we have entered our changing chambers. such ghetto atmosphere so far across channels where reading becomes a form of freedom. our nauseated stomachs our regurgitated acids where one couldn’t find but pity. a fever in its depth a mechanic to survive or seeing it played out in every location. too indicative of pain, or too much to explain, where often we depend upon universal knowledge. such a dearth of pioneers. behavior has become predictable. souls are clouds, searching at a breeze!
